Like a Marked up Moleskine

If I were to grate and
grade my mind for errors,
I would try
to write a new understanding of it,
placards and indices
its species was on its way
to classification
and bifurcation another nation
split up into categories
and gory lines and storylines
and Tory hides
and give and take
a few other things
worth mentioning-

to tell truths that need be told,
that the world was old
and demanded order
again amidst
the bilingual chaos
of our voices
trying to speak around each other

in some kind of
seismic strand of thought
that nobody but ourselves and others
could resist standing underneath in silence.

Shhh little baby,
there is a better way
to endure the static
bells of monasteries,

the monetary spells
and tributaries of spirit
spilling outward.

It's shame that shrivels up the mind
the way a raisin left under
some hydroponic lamp,

listens to the violets
and voices, stains the pine-
sol air with wrinkles.

An intrinsic frigidity overwhelms you.

The streetcar moans in a scraping solitude -

it's 6 am and nobody is in transition
except for you, melting and feverish to start another day.